


Urgent Assistance Required

by Footloose



Series: Loaded March EXTRAS [5]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Military
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-28 01:58:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Footloose/pseuds/Footloose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a mission goes wrong, Merlin calls the only person he can to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Urgent Assistance Required

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deslynn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deslynn/gifts).



> I've [opened up the floor to questions](http://loaded-march.livejournal.com/12506.html) or _want-to-see_ scenes in anything currently completed in the Loaded March series so far (up to Part 7).
> 
>  
> 
> In **Loaded March Part 3: R &R**, Will gave Arthur the low-down on what happened to Merlin in his last squad.
> 
> Deslynn prompted the following scene: _Will getting Merlin out of the mess caused by Cedric. With explosions._
> 
>  
> 
> This occurs _prior to the point when the Loaded March series begins_ , well before Merlin ever joined Excalibur.

* * *

"You going west today?" Merlin asked, taking the hard-as-rock bread roll from Will's tray, glancing on either side of them to make sure no one was looking before using his magic to refresh and re-warm it. He tore himself a piece and dropped the other half on Will's mashed potatoes.

"West _ward_ , yeah," Will said, smacking Merlin's fork away from the bangers. "And keep your fork to your own bloody fucking food, why don't you? I need everything I've got. I'm on an eat and run. Greg's having us scramble for that escort out on A1 going that-a-way. Don't ask me where we're ending up. I weren't paying attention."

"Over open road?" Merlin asked, startled. "Isn't that kind of --"

"Suicide? Weren't my idea, was it? Besides, it's not just us, there's a couple of other outfits packing the ranks for muscle. Two teams from the Americans, and, thank _fuck_ , a Peacekeeper squad from Canada to keep us from shooting them along the way."

Merlin chuckled humourlessly. "When are you leaving?"

There was something in Merlin's voice that made Will stop shovelling food down his throat as if it were going out of style. He took in Merlin's fidgeting -- a bored Merlin always fidgeted, but this was more than usual -- and put down his fork. "What's going on?"

Merlin brushed his hand through his hair. "Oh, nothing. Just asking."

"Merlin," Will said with a grin, "I'm a man with a deadly weapon, who never misses, and who's not afraid to use it. Make it easy on yourself and spill."

"There's nothing," Merlin said, moving the mash that passed for potatoes around and around until he'd made a circle that was suspiciously shaped into a bull's-eye. When actual designs showed up in anything Merlin touched, Will knew that Merlin's magic was involved. _Especially_ when the tomato juice in his glass mysteriously transferred to the tray and filled in the circles to make the design more apparent.

He pointed at the tray. "And what's that then? Are you having one of your bad feelings again?"

"Maybe?" Merlin gave him a somewhat-desperate, completely-forced smile that Will supposed might have disarmed anyone who thought Merlin was cute, but Will did not and never would think of Merlin as _cute_.

Will scowled. He reached over with his fork and mashed the tomato juice through the potato bull's-eye before anyone could see it. He didn't need to ask what it was that Merlin was having bad feelings about, because for the last few months, all Merlin had been doing was crying wolf. _I've got a bad feeling_ about that; I've got a bad feeling about this, but no matter how many bad feelings Merlin had, absolutely nothing had happened.

Will knew why, though. It all came down to one thing, and that was Merlin's constant, never-ending disagreements with his Captain.

They never happened in public. Merlin was too diplomatic for that. But Will had walked in on them once, hot at it, Merlin standing firm in the middle of the barracks, Captain Walsh roaring right in his face. Will had ducked around the corner, out of sight, and lingered, just in case he had to haul Merlin out of there before Walsh had Merlin up on charges.

Merlin's voice had been firm but urgent. "There's new intel on the mission, sir. It might change things. I'm just asking you to reconsider your battle plan before we head out --"

"You're a _communications specialist_ , Emrys," Walsh had roared, and Will had nearly _felt_ the spittle spraying. "Not a tactical officer, not a commanding officer, and definitely not anyone from whom I should take any kind of advice from --"

Granted, Cedric Walsh was a pompous, self-assured dickhead with few friends even among his own circle of friends, with too much privilege afforded someone with his background -- a background mired in military honour and old family money -- and an absolute pillock on his best day. He was a terrible leader, made to look good only because the men he was leading made him look good, because people like _Merlin_ saved his sorry arse at the last possible moment.

Will had lost count a long time ago. He didn't know how many times he'd told Merlin to let Walsh dig his own grave. Everyone was eager for a reason to shuffle Walsh out of their battalion, and they wouldn't have a reason if Merlin and the others kept covering for him.

"We're not doing it for him," Merlin had told Will a couple of weeks ago, coming back from a nasty dust-up with the enemy. "We're just trying to get out of this alive."

Will was just sorry that Merlin's version of _alive_ included with his Captain in tow. Merlin wasn't the second-in-command, but he had enough seniority to take over if Walsh ever went down -- and it might come to that; Will knew Walsh's second, and he was only a little more competent than Walsh.

A gnat was more competent than Walsh.

"Look, Merlin," Will said. He stood up, clamped a hand on Merlin's shoulder, and squeezed. "I'm going to give you the best advice of your life. Well, second to, you know, telling you to go after that redhead back in uni because you swore up and down he was the love of your life, and shagging your delusions out of your system."

"That was actually the single worst piece of advice you'd ever given me," Merlin said. "For one, he was a _terrible_ shag."

"Well, they can't all have my magnificence," Will said. "A pity you're not a girl, or you'd get to experience it for yourself."

"Pass," Merlin said.

"You don't know what you're missing," Will said.

"Pass," Merlin said again.

"Are you done with that?" Will asked, pointing at Merlin's tray. "Can walk me out, and I'll share with you my pearls of wisdom --"

"More like pebbles of wisdom," Merlin muttered, but he stood up, taking his tray. They both left the trays for the mess hall staff, ducking out the tent, squinting against the bright light.

"In my wisdom, I notice you're as geared up as I am," Will said, gesturing to Merlin's camos. He wasn't in full suit, but damn near was, which meant that sometime in the next hour, Merlin's team would be spinning up and rolling out, and he was in a state of near-readiness, because Walsh had the right annoying habit of telling his team to hurry up and wait. And wait.

"Astute observation," Merlin said, not making eye contact.

They ducked around a passing jeep, and Will snapped his fingers in Merlin's face. "Would this current state of readiness have anything to do with your bad feeling?"

"Yeah." Merlin took his arm and stopped him. He glanced on either side of them, his lips pursing together, and finally said, "Look. Just keep your radio with you, okay?"

Merlin had built a small radio for Will -- something battle-ready that would play tunes to rattle the enemy, but more importantly, that would switch to Merlin's magic frequency if Merlin was ever in trouble on the battlefield. Will didn't pretend to know how the damn thing worked, never mind how Merlin's _magic_ worked, because Merlin generally operated on a sphere of existence beyond this one. Still, he was grateful for the radio; besides being a source of amusement for him, it was the only thing that had kept Will from ranting and raging when he found out that they hadn't been assigned to the same unit.

He still ranted and raged now and then, mostly to himself or to his team; no point in making Merlin feel worse than he already did, being stuck with his current squad.

"Always do," Will said, but he frowned. "Walsh again?"

"'Course," Merlin said. "When isn't it?"

Will took a deep breath. "All right. Here's my brilliant advice, and you're going to take it. Man up, Merlin. Walsh is a dick. Stand up to him -- _really_ stand up to him, for once."

 

ooOOoo

 

They were a few kilometres south of Kadu, following a dirt trail that was more of a camel road with too many sharp turns over rocky ground that was anything but flat. After the first fifty metres of completely convoluted roller-coaster, stomach-in-throat driving with JJ at the wheel, Merlin had abandoned the slow-moving transport and walked alongside.

For one thing, walking was faster. For another, they shouldn't be this far into the assault area with a bloody _transport_. If the rebels hiding in the cave system didn't know they were coming from the dust cloud being kicked up every time JJ had to put more power to the engine to get the wheels out of a pit, they would have heard the engine roar by now.

Merlin had done his best to quell the dust cloud with his magic -- so at least, maybe, just maybe, they would still have something along the element of surprise. If it were up to Merlin, he would leave the transport right where it was, and scatter the squad into two teams in a broad fan outward, in both directions, all to avoid the rebels that might be snaking their way toward _them_. But it wasn't up to Merlin, and a third reason why Merlin had gotten out of the transport was because Walsh _was a fucking idiot_ , and Merlin couldn't be responsible for his actions when the overwhelming urge to choke the life out of Walsh came over him.

"Captain?" Merlin had said, right before they turned off the main road to follow the coordinates that the command centre had forwarded to him, "I think we should proceed on foot."

"I don't care what you think," Walsh had said. "Command wants this taken care of as quickly as possible, that means we go in hot."

"Doesn't mean we go in with a giant neon sign over our heads screaming _shoot me_ , sir. With due respect --"

"Are you questioning my orders, Emrys?" Walsh had asked, with that thin tone of menace that meant he would be more than happy to write an insubordination report and tack it in Merlin's file. JJ had glanced at him sidelong, quick and furtive, somehow keeping his eyes on the road ahead at the same time, and Merlin hadn't needed an interpreter to know what JJ had been trying to tell him.

 _If you pick this battle, we'll fight it with you._

"Sir," Merlin had said, rough and curt, and he picked that moment to get the fuck out of the Humvee before he said something that he was going to regret.

 _Man up_ , Will had said.

Merlin wasn't going to start questioning Walsh right before they were about to engage the enemy. He wasn't about to incite unrest in the troops and give the enemy the chance of getting the drop on them. But come hell or high water, Merlin was going to get himself reassigned to another unit. _Surely_ there was a team out there that needed a communications specialist who could also do a bit of search and rescue on the side. Walsh's squad wasn't the _only_ one out there, but it was also where Merlin was currently assigned with no hopes of transfer, because Walsh was a _goddamn wanker_.

Merlin made a mental note to hand in his log book -- his _diary_ , as Will called it, once, until he found out about Walsh and all the details that Merlin was putting in the book, so now it was Merlin's _covering-my-arse_ book -- as soon as he returned to base after this mission. With fresh notations. He didn't _need_ Walsh to sign transfer papers. He would go right over Walsh's tiny, stupid head.

"Merlin?" Lucas asked, coming up next to him. He gestured meaningfully and Merlin followed him away from the Hunvee, where Marc and MacKay were spread out, half keeping an eye out on the terrain, half keeping clear of the very obvious _please shoot me_ that was the Humvee.

Merlin climbed up on a rocky outcropping, hunching down, following a goat's path after Lucas until they were ahead and above the Humvee and the smaller transport trailing behind it. "We're just wondering. What are the coordinates we were supposed to find the rebels at?"

Merlin glanced at Lucas, slowing down as he relaxed his grip on his rifle. He pulled out the mission book, flipped to the right page, and read out the coordinates. When he looked up, Lucas was looking at him strangely.

"What?"

"You never check your numbers, Merlin."

Merlin nodded, putting the book away. "I'm just making sure."

"If I want someone to check coordinates, I send them to you," Lucas said. "You're our numbers guy. You don't need a book."

"I don't need a book," Merlin confirmed with a nod, watching as Lucas grimaced and flipped the switch on his radio, to the channel that Walsh didn't know the team had, the one that excluded Walsh and his second-in-command.

"MacKay, you're right. We're at the coordinates," Lucas said. MacKay was ahead of them -- the designated run-ahead guy, not just because he was the fastest, smallest, and sneakiest, but because he was a damn hand with a sniper rifle.

Not as good as Will, but then again there were few people who were as good as Will.

"I knew it," MacKay said, his voice low and menacing, the rumble of a tank crushing over ground. "All right. I'm radioing in."

Merlin heard the click of the channel switch and MacKay's voice coming over the main line. "Dog 3 to Dog 1. Terminate advance. Terminate advance STAT. Approaching coordinates."

"What are you talking about, Dog 3?" Walsh said over the line. "Orders are to continue to coordinates, stage area, and proceed from there. Continue advance to coordinates."

"But --"

"Continue advance to coordinates," Walsh snapped.

There was another click on the line, and a long string of MacKay's trademark swearing came over the line. "Fuck this! Fuck him! I'm seeing movement ahead --"

There was a whoosh in the air, a smoke trail in the sky. Merlin didn't need to do any fancy calculations to know where the missile was heading. He slapped his Box and shouted, "Evac! Have visual on RPG. Evac!"

"Bollocks --"

The men in the transports didn't wait for Walsh to give the command, scrambling from the Humvees and _bugging out_. Walsh was next-to-last, getting away from the lead Humvee in time to duck behind solid rock. There was a thunderous crash of anti-tank missile with tank-skin transport, a crack-implosion-ka _chtunk_ of fierce, violent blast, of fire and flame and smoke and molten metal raining down. The impact was the snap-whip of _breaking the sound barrier_ flattening even those out of the initial range onto their backs.

Merlin couldn't hear anyone, couldn't hear _anything_. His ears were ringing, his vision was blurred, his _insides_ felt as if they'd been shoved into a blender and jellified. He wasn't the only one to feel like that, because Lucas, beside him, staggered on legs that had the consistency of Merlin's Mum's pudding --

Lucas caught himself, only to jerk left, and jerk right --

collapsing onto his knees, falling back under the impact of automatic fire --

returning fire, his SA80 pumping bullets in a wild arc --

\-- it was only then that Merlin realized that they _were under attack_ and not only by distant missile fire. He turned around, saw the sun-bleached pale green shirts and brilliant white-and-red flashes of material swathed around the men's heads, firing on instinct as he raced over to Lucas' position, grabbing the back of his vest to drag him to cover.

"... _who's firing_ who's firing!" Merlin made out Walsh's voice over the radio despite the double echo of his injured eardrums. "... _stop firing_ stop firing!"

"We're under attack you goddamn fucking idiot! Return fire! Return fire!" Merlin roared. A rebel jumped out at him from between a crevice; before Merlin was able raise his gun, Marc took him down, clearing his left, moving right, signalling at Merlin to come on, to come forward.

Merlin checked Lucas. "You all right?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Lucas said, nodding his head, wincing as if it took an effort to breathe, and it did, because Kevlar could stop bullets, but it could only disseminate part of the force, and bullets that struck home still _hurt_. He heaved a strangled gasp, but got to his feet with help, and they both followed Marc away from the flaming, burning Humvee through a labyrinthine corridor of too-narrow stone pathways until they met up with MacKay well ahead of their original route. Merlin could see Walsh and his second down the hill, a few more men scattered but slowly coming together, returning fire as the rebels herded them into --

" _Fuck_ ," MacKay said. "It's a trap."

Merlin keyed the comm unit and shouted, "Dog 1 -- do not retreat west. Repeat, do not retreat west. We have an eyeball on your position. You are being herded. Repeat, you are being --"

"Shut up! I have it under control!" Walsh roared.

"You dumb bloody pillock!" MacKay said. "Get your arse moving north -- take the road right in front of you --"

There was another soft, distant _wh-woop_. Another missile coming their way.

" _Incoming!_ " Marc shouted. " _INCOMING!_ "

Merlin switched his Box to the emergency frequency that would directly connect him to the command centre. It would also activate Will's radio, and Merlin hoped to all the Gods out there that Will _had_ brought the damn radio with him.

And that he was close.

"CC Zero, this is D15A under heavy fire --"

 

ooOOoo

 

"Well, that was a fucking waste of time," the American riding next to Will said. His name was Troy "Fifty" Brand, and Will had made a point of not asking what the "Fifty" stood for, but Brand told him anyway. It had something to do with the size of his dick: _fifty confirmed kills. Can you believe that? I got fifty tucked under my belt, and with my next one, I'm going to go by Troy "Fifty-One" Brand._

Ever since they left the base and rode up the A1 with the convoy, delivering supplies, Brand had followed Will around like a lost damn puppy. He was young, he was inexperienced, and there was no way that he had fifty confirmed kills under his belt. He hadn't been with the army nearly long enough.

"Shouldn't you be with your squad?" Will had asked once.

"Bah, they don't understand. Us snipers need to stick together," Brand had said.

One of Brant's mates had taken Will aside once they unloaded the supplies and said, "You know. Sorry about Brand. But, you know. If you shoot him... Even by accident, we won't blame you."

"He's not so bad," Will had said, and really, Brand wasn't that bad. He reminded Will of a young Will, when he was still on the stupid side, before he trained up with Mawls Gibson. Brand was cocky, but there was cocky and then there was cock-sure, and Will was definitely the latter. Mawls had taught him that there was a very fine line between the two, and he didn't mind Brand's company so much.

But now, fifty kilometres on the A1 heading back to Kandahar, listening to Brand tell another story -- obviously _totally made up_ \-- about shooting someone down at a range of over a kilometre, Will wished he'd taken the "suggestion" from Brand's teammate.

Or at least thought of bringing a spare pair of socks (preferably used), just so he could shove them in Brand's mouth to _shut him up_.

Abruptly, the jazz blues playing over his radio cut out in a noisy, staticky fizzle, and a cold chill poured down Will's spine.

" _CC Zero, this is D15A under heavy fire at contact 3216-6766, unknown number of enemy assaulting this location with automatic weapons and RPG. We are returning fire. Send QRF to this location urgently. Repeat: CC Zero --_ "

"What's that?" Brand asked.

Will yanked his radio out of his pack and shook it with trembling hands, trying to get more of Merlin's voice out of it, simultaneously scrambling forward from the rear of the transport truck to bang on the windows. "Captain! _Captain!_ You have to hear this!"

The window opened just as Merlin's voice crackled over the speakers again. " _\-- this is D15A under heavy fire at contact 3216-6766 --_ "

A loud, reverberating explosion _vibrated_ through the radio, and Will nearly dropped it.

"That's Merlin's unit, isn't it?" Quentin asked, shifting in his seat to look at Will. "How do you have his team's frequency?"

Will stared at Quentin. "You've met Merlin, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"So you know what a _dumb_ question that is. Are we anywhere near --"

The radio crackled to life again, this time sputtering out live fire. " _\-- again, CC Zero, this is D15A. We need urgent assistance at contact 3216-6766. We are requesting QRF and the med-evac --_ "

"Shite," Quentin said, tapping his earpiece. "Prentiss, are you getting any noise from central --"

He fell silent for a moment, twisting his head to look out the window. "Connect me to them now."

There was a pause, and Quentin spoke, "Central, this is D22B. We received an urgent request for assistance -- yes, sir. Yes, sir. I'll contact the other team leaders. Is airborne on the way? Yes, sir. Immediately."

"Is it a go?" Will asked, anxious, because he wasn't receiving much more than static over the radio.

Quentin gave him a curt nod. "Get me a locations check to Merlin's position. Figure out the fastest route."

"Sir," Will said with a nod. He found his earpiece, hooked it on, and squeezed himself between another soldier and the side of the transport. He unfolded his map and checked his compass. He could hear the click of changing frequency on his earpiece, barely paying any attention as Quentin spoke to the other team leaders.

"This is D22B. Have received communication from central to provide urgent assistance to a team under heavy fire and RPG. Will be leaving convoy immediately. Anyone want to join us, you'll be most welcome."

There was a pause before almost immediate response from the Peacekeepers. "Give us the coordinates, we'll follow your lead."

The Americans took a little longer, after doubtlessly checking with their command line. Quentin turned his head. "Will?"

"We're two klicks out, we'll have to run half of it on foot. Derek, you're going to be taking a hard left here --"

"Off road?"

"No, it's a fucking red carpet," Will snapped. "Yeah, off-road."

They were already scrambling out of the vehicles when they saw a RPG land somewhere ahead. " _INCOMING_ ," Derek shouted, and they all ducked for cover.

The RPG wasn't aiming for them. It hit somewhere ahead, right where Merlin's squad was supposed to be.

Will ignored the pounding in his chest. He was the team's sniper, the one who knew how to move fast and invisible under cover, and every inch of him wanted to cowboy it to the rescue. It was only strict discipline that had him seeking out his commander's approval.

He didn't have to ask. "Go."

"Brand!" Will shouted. "You want your fifty-one? Get on my six!"

He was gone in a flash. The rest of the team, the Peacekeepers, the two Special Forces units -- they'd have to catch up if they wanted Will to leave them any action.

 

ooOOoo

 

From the terrain map, Will knew the general area well enough to take a position that was both high and had a good vantage, while still keeping him sheltered enough that he could roll off into cover if more of those RPGs were going to come in. He wasn't close enough to see where Merlin's squad had holed up -- there were too many twists and turns in the rocks -- but he could see the smoking Humvee through the scope and follow the smoke trail of the most recent RPG to track it back to the source.

He braced himself in position. Brand was less than a metre away. In theory, Brand was supposed to act as his spotter, to keep watch while Will was concentrating on his shooting, but that wasn't what they were putting into practice. Will was working too quickly. As soon as Will settled and picked off his target, Brand had only just caught up and was trying to spot what Will was after. Will would pull the trigger and keep going, leaving Brand to heave himself up and struggle to keep up.

It wasn't that Brand was out of shape. It was that Will was a man on a mission. The burning thighs? The shortness of breath? That was absolutely nothing.

That was Merlin out there. His best friend. The closest thing he had to a brother.

"You see him?"

"I see him," Brand confirmed.

The rest of the squad was catching up to them fast, and that was only because between Will and Brand -- mostly Will -- were clearing the way. Their backup couldn't advance any further until they'd taken care of the arseholes manning the RPGs.

There was one man left. He had a loader, a spotter, and Will had seen the neon green of laser sighting -- which explained why and how they were so frighteningly accurate.

"Can you get him?"

Will estimated the distance as just under two kilometres, and that might just be in the range of the Sharpshooter rifle that Brand was carrying. Those were new to the British Army and Will had yet to get his hands on one of them to try it out, and if this was his chance of seeing it in action, he was going to take it.

"Of course I can," Brand said. He fingered the scope adjustments.

"Wind's east by northeast, ten klicks per," Will said.

"ENE, and what the fuck's a klick?"

"Kilometre," Will said, rolling his eyes.

There was a long silence. "And in miles per hour that would be what?"

"Fuck, you're asking me? Why can't your lot go metric like the rest of us?" Will asked, closing his eyes to remember the conversion. "Six-two."

"Six-two what?"

"Six-point-two mph, you idiot. Take the shot, you won't get one better."

Will waited, and waited. Brand squeezed out two shots. They both missed.

Will cursed when he saw the enemy scramble for cover. If they got out of sight, they would be impossible to hit and could keep firing blind. They didn't need to be exact, not with missiles. Will squeezed out two rounds, killing the shooter with one, injuring the spotter with the second.

"Fuck you," Brand muttered. "You and your stupid metrics."

Will smirked. He decided he'd stick with his AS50 rifle.

Will called in confirmation that the RPGs were down -- that meant that the helis could come in with additional troops without worry that they'd be shot down, and the med-evac team could arrive to take care of the injured. He got up, hauling Brand to his feet. "Come on. Let's make sure the area's clear."

The closer they came to the coordinates, the closer they approached heavy fire. There were smaller explosions from thrown hand grenades, and Will switched from his rifle to his semiautomatic for close combat. Brand followed suit, watching their rear.

Will should have been able to pick up Merlin's Box by now. "Come on, Merlin. Come _on_."

He rounded a corner. A rebel popped out from around the bend. A squeeze of trigger took care of him. There was a nearby explosion, somewhere just past the ridge ahead.

Another thirty metres through the maze, and Walsh whirled around, sweeping his gun in their direction. If it hadn't been for Will's quick reactions, Brand would've been turned into Swiss cheese.

"Fucking hell! Walsh! Put the fucking gun down! We're your backup!"

"What? Who are --"

"D22B, you flipping wanker," Will said, gratified at both the recognition and the embarrassment in Walsh's face. "Where's Merlin?"

"Merlin?"

"Yeah, your comm-spec. Merlin."

"He's out that way," said Walsh's second, cowering under an overhang. "Just got hit."

"Fuck, no," Will said, blanching. He surged forward.

Walsh caught Will before he went past, hauling him to a stop. "You're staying here and watching our arses until --"

Will clocked him.

Will didn't stick around for the satisfaction of seeing Walsh fall on his ass, and went through the motions of quick check-clear-move until he reached an opening in the maze of rocks.

He stopped.

The stone was scorched black from what must have been the blast of enough grenades to equate several pounds of C4 explosive. Round rocks, jagged stone, cracked ground was scattered from the blowback, acting like shrapnel.

There were six bodies in the area -- one belonging to a rebel. The remainder were soldiers.

Arms and legs splayed out, their guns hanging from the nylon straps that kept them close to their bodies, they were covered in dirt and grime and blood.

None of them were moving.

Brand bumped into him from behind, jarring Will into action. He scanned the area but it looked as if the rebels fucked off. Will grabbed Brand and shoved him into the mess.

"Check them! Check them!"

Like every other SAS soldier, Will had received the minimum first aid training and knew how to triage. It was no different among the American Special Forces, because Brand went from the first body that he came across, checking vitals, to the next with surprising efficiency.

Will recognized MacKay. Breathing, unconscious. No visible wounds except for a few burns and probable concussion damage.

He found Lucas, who was blinking his eyes repeatedly, as if he couldn't see or hear. Will reassured him by moving Lucas' hand to the patch on Will's shoulder. Lucas stopped struggling and relaxed, laying flat, aware now that help was on the way.

Will scrambled to the third body just as Brand went to check on the rebel.

Merlin.

"Merlin!"

He was lying on his side, his greens torn and ripped, his rucksack -- his Box -- in pieces. Will checked his vitals. He was breathing -- _thank fuck!_ , but shakily. His pulse was faint and thready.

Will cut off the rucksack straps, yanking it off, checking for injuries. He didn't see any. He rolled Merlin onto his back carefully in case there was a spinal injury -- and with that much damage to the rucksack, it was a frighteningly good bet. Brand came over, said something that Will couldn't make out -- something about _med-evac's on the way_ \-- and the two of them searched Merlin head to toe, searching for injuries.

Will drew his hands away and saw blood.

Merlin was bleeding out through his left side where the Kevlar didn't cover him. Will reached under the vest, finding the bullet wound.

He put pressure on it and didn't let go. Not when Walsh came over from wherever he'd stuck his head in the sand and roared orders at him. Not when Brand decided to follow Will's earlier example and shut him up with a sucker punch. Not when Quentin and Prentiss and Derek finally caught up and cleared the area. Not when the medics finally arrived and tagged Merlin critical and for immediate transport.

 

ooOOoo

 

"About fucking time you woke up, you wanker," Will said, looming over Merlin's hospital bed at the MASH. He tried to ignore all the white bandages, the tubes sticking out of him, the equally white pallor, the sunken of Merlin's cheeks, the faded blue of his eyes.

"Will?" Merlin croaked. His eyes fluttered.

"I weren't going to be the one to tell your mum what happened, yeah? She'd tear me a new one before planting me right next to you in the hospital," Will said, taking Merlin's hand.

"Whh.. happned..." Merlin opened his eyes, and the usual bright blue had turned a deathly pale that was just this side shy of the grave, but the doctor had assured Will that Merlin was out of danger.

The doctor had better not have lied to him.

"You got shot, mate," Will said. "Bullet got you in a gap in your vest, just a couple of eyelashes from your heart. The doc here says you'll be fine, but they're shipping you to the centre Germany to make sure."

Merlin made a small sound.

"You'll be fine, Merlin. You'll be aces again. And next time, we'll make sure you're on my squad, yeah? No more of this bollocks with giant arses for Captains, I promise."

Will blinked the tears out of his eyes when Merlin weakly squeezed his hand.

A nurse cleared her throat behind Will. "You should let him rest."

"Yeah," Will said. He saw in her expression what she didn't say out loud -- that he should get some rest himself. He hadn't left Merlin since they took him out of surgery. He had hated the thought of Merlin waking up without someone there that he knew. He also hated the thought of Merlin not waking up, and had spent the last forty-eight hours talking to Merlin until he went hoarse, trying to convince him to open his damn eyes and to _stop scaring me_.

He turned back to Merlin. "Look, visiting hour's over, and a pretty nurse wants to give you a sponge bath."

Will leaned in and said, "Sorry, mate. It's a girl. I tried to get a guy..."

There was a soft huff of breath that might have been laughter.

Will left the MASH, light with relief, but as soon as he walked into the barracks and saw the look on Quentin's face, he knew that things had gone to hell.

"It's Walsh," Quentin said grimly. "Rumour is that he's blaming this whole cock-up on Merlin."

Walsh again. Always that fucker Walsh.

Will was going to kill him.


End file.
